A few days on the road and thus away from quiet and wifi, not that the two are usually coterminous, have led to a break in blogging and a thousand jumbling tumbling thoughts. Sitting here, though, perched on the edge of a French valley somewhere above the Rhone, brings one to the forefront of my mind.
I noticed it when I sat in ‘Wendy’s’, one of the countless chains of US burger joints my favourite of which must have been ‘Five Guys’ not least for the name. Anyway as I sat in Wendy’s eating square burgers (“At Wendy’s square means not cutting corners”!) with my luggage checked-in and my clothes back on post security-screening and at least two hours before my plane went I noticed I was hurrying.
I tried to slow down, but only to limited effect. There was something about the transitory nature of the airport fast-food joints which engendered hurry. Other passengers were rushing hither and thither and it urged me on. The constant chivvy-ing of the announcements on the tanoy quickened the beat to which I was unwittingly dancing. I was in a rush.
There are certain illnesses, I believe, that once you have been infected with them reduce your ability to withstand a further attack. Thus you are ill, you recover, but the same condition can strike with little warning.
As I have reflected, I have come to recognise that I am sick with hurry. I only need a hint of it around me and I am struck down afresh. I rush, sometimes just for the sake of rushing, but don’t notice because the pace of life is such that rushing is the norm anyway.
Maybe that’s my task for this week. To slow down… to notice… to be… and to listen.
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